


the longest day of the year

by remnantof



Series: T/Jverse [4]
Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Blow Jobs, College, Established Relationship, Interracial Relationship, Library Sex, M/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remnantof/pseuds/remnantof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Established Relationship, Tim/Jaime.  Jaime reserves a study room in the library before mid-terms; Tim has other ideas about its possible uses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the longest day of the year

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from tumblr by the author

Jaime lays his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ on the table and lays his face on top of it: maybe he’ll absorb the deeper meaning of bored white people complaining about money through his cheek, or maybe the text will just rub off on his skin and he’ll have some quotes to reference for the paper.

Mostly he just hopes anyone looking through the glass portion of the study room wall reads his red-faced despair as the urge to cry—which is there, under the frustrated arousal—because after ten minutes of rearranging the tables in the room to his liking and scattering Jaime’s study-materials over them, Tim crawled into his fortress of childish boredom. Now, he’s unzipping Jaime’s fly and ignoring all sense of—Jaime doesn’t even know. Decency, priorities, the fact that Jaime is going cross-eyed trying to make sense of the book he has to write a paper on tomorrow.

The fact that they’re in the UT Austin library and it’s almost finals week. Jaime still suspects Tim hacked something to get his request for the room through, but that doesn’t mean he gets to distract the shit out of Jaime the entire time. “Tim, you’re supposed to help me study—” Jaime sucks the back of his teeth and definitely doesn’t squeak when Tim’s hands slide up and open his belt.

Next semester, he’s replacing Tim with an mp3 player and making Kanye his study partner. Of the two dropouts, he’s pretty sure Kanye won’t try to suck his dick after a few hours.

[query: fellatio = presence = required ????????/////]

That’s what he needs: the scarab chiming in.

“I’m helping,” Tim says, arms sliding over the denim on Jaime’s thighs as he wraps his arms around Jaime’s waist and drags his mouth up to Jaime’s navel. “We’re working on your concentration,” except it’s more like Tim’s working on annoying him, in a way that makes Jaime drag his bag onto his own head to hide under. He probably looks like one of the bio majors having a meltdown, except it’s freshman English and there’s a lot more squirming and like, good things happening under the table.

Horrible timing, obviously, but, those are his hips twitching the lower Tim drags his mouth. “You’re not helping,” he says, muffled by the bag full of books on his head. “You’re never helping, because you’re full of shit and also annoying.” Tim starts tugging his pants down: “ _So annoying_ —”

And a ninja, and maybe not such an exhibitionist, because now Jaime’s under the table and his books are on the floor. Fuck. “Someone’s going to knock on the door,” he says, just letting himself lay there under the tables and despair a little while Tim tugs his pants the rest of the way off. “Someone’s going to knock and want to know why they couldn’t have the room if I’m just going to rearrange furniture and fall out of chairs. Then they’re going to send me the counselor and tomorrow I’ll write an essay on how much rich white people suck because they never let you study to pass your finals.”

“See,” Tim says, pushing Jaime’s shirt up, “I’m helping.”

“You just don’t want me to get ahead Tim. You’re preserving the status quo with blowjobs.”

“Well, I’m better at those than English.” Crawling up Jaime’s limp, resigned body, Tim settles on top of him and sucks a kiss to the edge of his jaw, scrapes his teeth on it until Jaime leans his head back and sighs. “I told you I never read it.”

“You don’t have to read it! It’s practically your life story, but there’s a green light instead of a Bat Signal and I don’t think you ever hit anybody with your fancy car.” Jaime’s arms lift and move abortively, gesturing his frustration behind Tim’s back until he remembers he’s lying under a bunch of tables and not wearing pants and Tim can’t see anyway because he’s trying to give Jaime a hickey.

Ugh.

“I definitely never hit anybody with my fancy car,” Tim says, like that’s what’s important right now.

“…no civilians, anyway.”

Jaime narrows his eyes. “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, you are the worst person I know.” Even though he’s leaning up on his hands now and looking down at Jaime, lips parted just-so and hair in that same stupid mess it’s always in, around his pink face and he’s sort of—Jaime sort of loves his fuck-up pendejo boyfriend. “The worst,” he repeats, softer and sobered by the way his gut feels warm and liquid and the scarab, still not helping, hums a little. “I know,” Tim answers, and that’s soft too, a little too sober and his smile is all wrong, like he isn’t joking. The way Jaime is joking, always joking about things like that. Tim didn’t have to come with him at all.

Maybe Jaime can kind of get how Tim dropped out of school now, staring up at what happens when you lock him in a room for several hours to read a book. He read the Sparknotes version on the internet and told Jaime to talk about the American Dream a lot.

Sometimes Jaime wonders why people write books like this, full of symbols and metaphors and never saying anything outright. Did they have to hide it? Did they have to dress it up? Where are the statements, where are the carefully tried and tested absolutes? Is he supposed to wax poetic about being under a desk with his boyfriend, or is it just—is it just what it is, Tim is bored and childish and likes to suck his dick?

What’s the deeper meaning of that, except the way his insides turn over and it feels like he needs to stretch his limbs, arch his back, when Tim crawls down and tugs at his boxers, kisses his head and swallows him clumsily, trying not to laugh. At himself probably, and that’s good, right? Jaime doesn’t know.

He’s been in here studying for four hours, and there’s so much he doesn’t know.

Scarab recommends rebooting to end his existential crisis. Jaime tells it to shut up. Tim smirks around his dick or anyway his mouth moves and that’s probably what it is, so Jaime thrusts in retaliation and shakes a little for how tense he is, how good this feels. Of course it feels good, even with his ass on the dirty floor until Tim shoves his hands under and squeezes. Digs his nails in a little and sucks harder, bobs his head and his stupid hair is sticking to his face now.

White girls playing tennis with sweat on their lips, god, who cares?

Jaime doesn’t get it, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get it, when half his clothes are made of sweat and he thinks, he thinks everything he had before that was made of sweat anyway, and—and he’s seen Tim pull that ugly cowl off and shake the sweat out of his hair and wipe ashes onto his forehead because a warehouse just _blew up_.

If tennis is the only thing making those girls sweat, Nick clearly wasn’t getting any, and maybe Jaime will write a paper on how the undersexed rich people in the book were unhappy and annoying, and he’ll pretend his boyfriend isn’t an example of how much that seriously isn’t the point.

Not that Tim seems unhappy right now. Still pretty annoying though, when Jaime isn’t sure just how soundproof these rooms are, but the sighs and moans crowd up in his throat and leave him grunting with every shove of his hips. Not an attractive sound, not really nice of him to thrust into Tim’s mouth without any warning, but Tim hums and takes it, digs his nails in harder and moans when Jaime gets hold of that stupid hair and holds him down.

Closer now, that he’s not thinking about that stupid book for the first time in days. Things all dressed up in pretty words that get under your skin and sit in your head, probably forever. Green lights and money are America, across a body of water; a woman hit by a car driven by her lover is also America; a man shot by another man is also America.

He didn’t need a book to tell him that. Doesn’t know how to say that to Tim, who dropped out of school and never read it. Probably wouldn’t get that part of it if he did, the way he watched Jaime greet everyone here who looks like him with a smile or a nod and thought Jaime knew them. Maybe he should—it had embarrassed him to say no and he doesn’t know why, it’s not the same way he feels embarrassed now, pantsless under a table, getting blown in the library. Not the same but he can remember the feeling when he tightens his grip on Tim’s hair and pushes a little harder, lets the tension make his body snap and grunt and sigh, pull Tim’s hair a little, pull it a little more until the wet heat disappears and Tim is asking him _what_ , and _are you—_ , and nothing else because Jaime just pushes him down to finish what he started.

So Tim fights him, probably—probably _not_ , but they’re both stubborn, and Jaime wants to keep his frustration well-fed—thus: Tim planned this, worked him up the way he’s always trying, did a better job than usual because it’s almost finals week. Because it’s all coming to a head under some tables in the fucking library, shoving at Tim’s head, holding him away by the throat while he slithers those little hips out of his pants and kicks them the rest of the way off, going pinker and breathing shallowly through his teeth. Just a few thrusts down against Jaime and a short blow to his elbow, his arm doesn’t go limp but the lock on his joint gives, they’re all grappling hands and the slide of Jaime’s spit-slick cock against Tim’s hip until Tim gets his wrists pinned and kisses him.

Jaime glares and walls Tim out with his teeth, but it doesn’t last, none of it lasts—because he’s angry and hard and close, and the strength of Tim’s hands pinning his wrists turns his insides to liquid, evaporates them, chokes him on them until he’s coming with a gasp. Tim kisses him then, licks his way inside and reaches down to stroke Jaime through it.

That’s his chance. Stupid Tim. Stupid boyfriend, wins one little battle and thinks he’s won it all. Thinks things are battles when they’re really just blowing off steam, letting a little of it out so they can fight the real ones. Jaime flips them, Tim’s ass on the floor now getting his mouth licked, his lips bitten. Jaime shoves two fingers into Tim’s mouth and watches him try and fail to pose with them, fail to be anything but sincerely hard for it when he sucks hard and pops off to lick them, get them nice and wet for when Jaime crawls back and goes in slow, goes in slow and careful because Tim hates that more than when it hurts. And those long smooth legs tense and relax, sliding up over his shoulders so Jaime can lean in, tongue the head of Tim’s cock and kind of love, kind of hate the way Tim won’t be quiet.

It wouldn’t be fair to pretend Tim isn’t afraid of things, when Jaime’s heard his voice get so small, woken up to Tim crying out in his sleep or just crying, but he’s definitely not afraid of normal things. Not afraid to get caught having gay sex in a library, and Jaime doesn’t know if it’s because Tim could apologize by buying them a new wing or because he just—doesn’t care.

Jaime probably doesn’t care as much as he should either—it’s not like he’s pulling out and telling Tim to get dressed, for fuck’s sake, we’re in public. He’s scissoring Tim open like one of them actually has lube and condoms and sucking him to make up for the fact that they really _don’t_ , fucking those sounds out of him and using his teeth just enough to make him whine. Drawing it out until he can feel sweat at the backs of Tim’s knees and he wants to lick it off, settles for swallowing when Tim tenses up and finally, finally has the presence of mind to bite down on his arm and come with a muffled shout.

Jaime doesn’t watch it. Keeps his eyes hooded, aims Tim down his throat and takes it, the way Tim took it before. Sucks him through it, licks him clean as he pulls out and feels the sweat at the backs of his knees when he pushes those legs off him. Finally used to the smoothness there, a blank canvas to paint armored tights on.

Black now. Jaime misses the red: Tim misses it too. Tim has things he’s afraid of, too, and Jaime kisses the inside of his knee, makes him smile slow and fuzzy down on the floor. “We don’t have a lot of time left,” he sighs: less once they feel like moving again, once they get their pants back on and Jaime can bring himself to look over that stupid book again. He knows what he wants to say about it, now, but he’s not sure he’s allowed. It’s a close thing, but he really would prefer a decent GPA to punching Fitzgerald in the mouth (scarab, always reliable, suggests nukes). He’ll do what Tim says: green lights and American dreams and ennui. Things Tim could probably write about without reading the book, without really trying.

Tim snorts, rolling back over to where Jaime was and picking up his underwear with one foot, starting to dress himself without even getting up. There’s a grace to it that Jaime just has to watch, be jealous of and thankful for at the same time. He doesn’t do shit like that, but at least he gets to watch Tim do it. “You’ve got to be starving by now, let me buy you lunch and we’ll figure the rest out in your room.”

Tim wouldn’t even write the paper, Jaime thinks. He’d be that guy who pays someone else to write it. Probably so he could go stop human traffickers or something, but still. He’d be that guy. Jaime makes a face.

Tim pushes his hair out of his eyes and sits up to pull his pants on. “Come on,” he sighs, “I was a bad study partner, let me make up for it. I owe you.”

Jaime looks at his pants sitting next to them on the floor, one leg thrown out into the light, where anyone glancing through the glass part of the wall could see it. And his books on the floor, and Tim licking at the sweat just above his lip.

“Yeah,” he says, “you really do.”


End file.
